You The Abandoned
by Ledgers
Summary: "Do you love me?" He wishes he could reach through his skin to grab his heart and squeeze so as to slow it down. His eyes close and he exhales a trembling breath, looking for a semblance of control– "No." The body underneath him goes very still. "I do not." Davy Jones/OMC
1. Alive

**A/N** \- This is it, the second part to "You The Living". There will be five? chapters, I think?, and as promised the story will be told in both Luke's and Jones' perspective, and maybe even Jack, though I honestly don't think I will write from his perspective all that much. Let me know what you guys think of this.

* * *

 _ **Alive**_

* * *

The water runs red where he lies, a hand splayed on his chest where the man can see the dark scar running from collarbone to the center of his chest.

He has not left the boy's side, his fingers still curled around a fragile wrist and feeling something akin to, not sadness, but _loss,_ after he feels the pulse throbbing beneath the skin fade to nothing. The memory of that mouth on his neck, of tearful blue eyes gazing back at him, should not shake him as much as it does. The boy, giving up his life for Jones' wretched own, thinking that two nights of intimacy meant more than that, had meant nothing to him. A warm body to hold onto on nights when his dreams had been too vivid, when all the alcohol had not been enough.

It meant nothing.

There is no breath filling the boy's lungs, no heaving of his chest, but the skin touching the palm of Jones' hand is still giving off warmth. For a moment he presses his hand flat to the boy's side to feel the skin there, warm and wet to the touch, and remembers how it had felt to let his hand slide down that sun tanned chest when the boy had still been alive and breathing harshly into his neck. Remembers the sight of his body, bruised and bleeding after he had come apart in Jones' hands, and that when he had the man's heart all to himself, he had sacrificed his own.

As much as he wants to, he cannot shake him.

What did the boy's live matter to him? He who feels nothing at all?

He cuts through flesh and muscle, grasping for the root of his pain. The pads of his fingers brush along the organ beating where Luke's own heart should have been but is not, listening to the pained heartbeat he had never thought he would hear again. Even muted by flesh, it goes up the length of Jones' arm and reverberates in his chest.

Anger surges through him, anger at the boy for forcing him to face his own cowardice and shame. He would rather feel nothing than the pain scarred into his heart, would rather feel nothing than wear his _feelings_ on his sleeve like this. He suddenly feels vulnerable, painfully exposed with his heart in the breast pocket of his coat.

He gives his men the order to pull back; let the ships and the men on them destroy themselves. He has what he came for.

Then, with uncharacteristic gentleness he gathers the boy into his arms, the dead body feeling too heavy and too light, and carries him to the offside of the ship. The tentacle wound around Luke's arm leaves his skin with his mark and, before Jones can think of the consequences this will have, he loosens his hold on him and watches as the body plunges into the dark water of the Caribbean sea...

* * *

It was not the heart shaped mouth that had him so fascinated with the boy, not the bruised body that had bared itself to his gaze as rain fell on his skin, no– It was the eyes. Those intense eyes that conveyed all of his emotions, his every thought with their brutal honesty behind them. Eyes that would narrow with anger that coursed through his blood and then became half lidded as the anger subsided. Eyes that were a vibrant blue at the slightest feeling of happiness.

The boy had been so... human. His inner feelings had bled through the skin like an open wound and stained his face with so much emotion, like his heart and his eyes were connected, that for a time Jones had felt as though he really knew him inside and out.

But that was before he died in his arms, with an unreadable expression on his face. Jones had never seen it before, had never seen him smile like he had, his eyes filled with an emotion the man had never seen there. He had seen desperation before, curiosity, anger– but as the boy was dying, all he saw in the nuances of his expression was nothing but _love_ – an expression he is so intimately familiar with.

Those eyes had looked with so much more love than Jones had ever been given.

* * *

 _ **Luke**_

He feels like nothing.

There is no heartbeat in his ears as rivulets of blood run down his arms, no pulse throbbing beneath his skin. No sadness squeezing its fingers tight around his throat and no anger tearing through him. Nothing but the scar on his chest that makes him remember what being alive had felt like.

 _When was the last time he felt the blood pumping through his veins with excitement, or when happiness formed dimples in his cheek and tugged his mouth into a smile? When had he last stifled a laugh behind that tight lipped smirk of his?_ It feels as if he has poured all of his emotions and feelings into the hole in his chest, a hole where his heart should be but isn't.

* * *

He is stranded on an island with black sand covering the beach and jagged rock formations that dig painfully into his feet. Split knuckles are brushing against the rock of the cliff as he climbs and vermilion footprints from bloodied feet stick to the rough surface. He nearly falls when his hands, slick with blood or sweat he can't tell, slip from cliff's ledge and his fingernails scratch at the rock, panicking. He can hear his own breathing, every panted breath harsher than the last, as he heaves himself up and collapses onto his back.

The cold night air on his skin is a strong contrast to the warm blood filling his mouth after he finds the inside of his cheek with his teeth. He tastes copper, thick and heavy on his tongue as he gets up and faces the dark water of the ocean.

The waves crashing on shore are deafening.

The sky above is of the darkest blue.

His feet pad closer to the cliff's edge.

 _One. Two..._

 _What am I doing?_

He is no coward. He has never thought he would die _through_ cowardice.

Could he close his eyes for long enough, and if he shatters his skull on the jagged rocks– Will he die? Tears spill from his closed blue eyes and a muted whimper spills past his lips. He is alone, so utterly alone, and it is all self inflicted. He did this to himself. And love– love did this, too.

Through his blurred vision Luke can barely see the fading bruises on his arm where _he_ last touched him, and as his fingers trace the reddened circles, his toes curl over the edge. His last thought is of the man's hand on his arm...

 _Stop._

A whisper. A hallucination. It has to be all in his head, but still doubt plagues him, weighing heavily in his stomach. _What am I doing–_ His soul shrinks, horror and self-loathing trickling through into his consciousness. _Can I really go through with this?_

The heels of his hands cover his eyes and he stumbles back. He realizes with a hard swallow the enormity of what he is, was, about to do. It isn't blood he tastes on his tongue then, but bile. His knees give in. He is terrified, and suddenly a bright flash of green lights up the sky and bleeds through the back of his eyelids.

 _I am coming._

When Luke opens his eyes he thinks he can see the sails of the _Dutchman,_ but this too has to be in his head...

* * *

 **Jones**

Jones eyes drink in the sight of him sleeping, curled up on the bunk with his knees bent and hands fisted into the sheets, his jaw clenched and brows furrowed. The waves of relief he feels washing through him are so strong he thinks that even in his sleep, the boy will have sensed them.

For a moment Jones listens to his breathing, lips parted to drag in soft breaths, and suppresses the urge to move his hand onto Luke's chest to reassure himself of his presence. The boy's hands need bandaging, as do his feet, but the wounds, however he had gotten them, do not disturb him half as much as the dried blood mottling that skin. There is so much of it, clinging to his wrists and the beds of his nails. Jones would have asked about them if Luke had not been unconscious when his first mate had carried him in.

He tells himself there will be time for all of that later, and shuts his eyes. The _Dutchman_ groans as the waves crash into her, water leaking through the gaps of the rotting boards that are bending from the pressure of the storm. Thunder shakes the darkened night, and through it all the boy never wakes. It is hard for Jones to think of him as a man when his face seems so _gentle,_ if somewhat weary in the darkness of these quarters. There is a softness to his features that belies nothing but innocence. Still, the body beside him, trembling from the cold, is not the body of a boy, but a man– softness or no.

And it does not make sense to him. He cannot seem to figure it out– _how this boy,_ this boy with his mouth open in his sleep and soft hands, _could have done what he did for him._

* * *

It is barely audible, but nevertheless he hears the pause in Luke's breathing as he wakes, and listens to the rustle of the sheets behind him with something close to _anxiousness_. He feels it surge through him in waves, this feeling of the storm outside suddenly raging inside his chest, for he has no explanation as to why _he_ did what he did, at least no explanation that will not expose his guts to the boy, how fractured he really is.

The movements have stilled. From where Jones is sitting with his back turned, he glances at the small form on his bunk. He would have thought Luke to still be asleep, so unmoving is he, if it were not for the widened blue eyes staring at him, and the look in them has his own mouth tighten noticeably. His fingers glide over the keys of the organ, like a caress to a lover he has not seen in he does not know how long, but there is no noise coming from the pipes. He has not played in a long time.

The boy's voice is hoarse when he asks, in a tone that is dripping with too much emotion, "Why...? I thought–"

If only he knew himself. He should not have saved him, should not care if the cuts on his soft hands will scar. He should not _care, s_ o that at least he would know what to do with him. He cannot have him on his ship, and he cannot let him go.

"Think nothing of it."

"Nothing...?" Luke croaks out, and Jones can feel the frustration bubbling up inside of him.

" _Nothing."_

His mind made up, he grabs the clean bandages from his desk and settles onto the chair in front of the boy. A look in such close proximity shows him blonde hair mused with sleep and red, wriggly lines where the sheets have dug into the boy's cheek. The heel of a hand is rubbing at bleary blue eyes and then Luke is back to staring at him.

A bucket beside him contains clean water and he picks up a rag, taking a hand into his own and putting it on his knee. Jones cannot see the expression on that face, but he hopes that Luke will fall back asleep after he has seen to the worst of his injuries.

The cuts are deep. Ragged lines on both of his palms that will take time to heal. They will leave scars, and the thought is like a weight crushing his chest. He roughly cleans the dried blood off that darkened skin and if Luke is in pain he doesn't show it. The only indication that Jones is being too rough is the frown tugging at the boy's mouth. He drops the rag negligently back into the bucket and then none too gently wraps up his hand. Loop after loop he wraps around it and pulls so tight that he can hear a small whimper leave those lips– and then tighter still.

" _Ngh–!"_

"What ye did for me–" Jones starts and then pauses, the part of that is still human wanting to brush his thumb over the back of Luke's hand, though he keeps from doing so. "I have not forgotten."

It is as close to a "thank you" as he will give him. When he is done with the boy's hands and there is nothing more for him to do he is clutching for an illusion of composure. His eyes narrow and his lips quirk into a harsh smile.

"You had better put on your clothes."

Jones notices with some amusement the flush creeping into the boy's cheeks as he realizes that he is very much naked and that the sheets have long slipped past his groin. He mutters something like "fuck" and hastily covers himself, looking away with his fists clenched around the thin material of the sheets. Jones can smell the rain and old blood still clinging to his skin, and below that a scent that is uniquely him, warm and strong. As unimaginable as it seems and as absurd as it is, the boy smells of sunshine. That is the only real word Jones can explain it with.

And he would have taken him then, breathed in that scent of him, mixed with the smell of sweat and sex, if it were not for the time running through the gap of his fingers faster than he thought it would.

"We will reach land soon, so be ready to leave."

"Land?"

He doesn't elaborate, handing him the bandages for his feet. Luke doesn't need him for that, he tells himself. The boy can take care of them on his own.

* * *

 **Luke**

Land, it turns out, is the port of Padres. It is _home,_ but from where he stands it doesn't look anything like he remembers. _I guess it has been more than nine years. Nothing lasts forever._ He takes in the sight with a dark look on his face, his eyes moving from the lights of the town to his bandaged hands, and from there to Maccus staring at him, all teeth and his side of friendliness.

"What's with that look, hm?"

"What look?"

" _That_ look. You don't look too happy to be livin' again 's all." Maccus shrugs, as if he couldn't care less, and pats him on the shoulder. "Personally, kid, I didn' think I'd ever see your sorry arse again. But after what you did for the Captain..." Luke thinks he can hear a touch of respect in the man's tone.

"He's my Captain." he argues and tugs at a loose thread from the bandages. The knot Jones' has tied around his wrist is too tight and he wonders if it was done on purpose.

"Aye. He's mine too, but I wouldn't have done what you did. Not for anything."

Running a hand through his hair and ruffling the blonde strands as he looks away from Maccus, jaw set in a hard line, Luke can feel anger bubble up inside him. Anger at what, he doesn't know. Maccus has been the closest thing to a friend he has had on this ship, but sometimes the man doesn't know when to leave something alone.

"It's not like that." he snaps, walking past him to get a closer look at the town. But it is, and by the wide grin on Maccus' face he knows it too. To his right, Koleniko elbows him painfully in the ribs to get him to go back to work. Together they lower the boat that will take them to the docks into the water. Luke has to bite his lip to keep from crying as the rope touches the skin of his hands and he nearly lets go of it.

"Leave the kid alone, mate. Can't you see he doesn't wanna talk about it?"

" _Shove off._ You didn' notice the look on the Capt'n's face when he saw 'im? I haven' seen that look before and I've been on this ship longer than you."

"And in _your_ head, you think that means they're in love? You're even thicker than I thought."

Maccus grins at him, "Makes sense, doesn't it? I mean they did fuc– "

Luke punches him in the stomach, _hard,_ murder in his eyes and he looks to Koleniko when he hears the man's amused snort, but he only holds up his hands. Seconds later a laughing Maccus straightens to his full height to stare down at him.

"Your lucky I like you, lad."

He huffs out an annoyed breath.

" _Flynn._ Captain wants to see you."

Koleniko rolls his eyes and gets back to work. Maccus, still staring at him with that grin on his face, tilts his head to the Captain's quarters. Ignoring the argument that picks up soon as his back is to them, Luke marches off.

* * *

 **Jones**

He never knew anger had a scent, but as he breathes in the the boy standing so close to him that he can feel the angry breaths brushing the side of his face, he thinks he will not ever forget this scent.

It is a scent that tells Jones that the boy staring up at him will not go quietly. He smells like sun and damp earth and coppery violence, like control slipping from bony fingers and anger dragging its tongue along that dark skin. He would never admit to it, but he admires the display of tightly wound anger, the expression on his face Luke has masked with bared white teeth and narrowed blue eyes.

"What are you talking about?" he grits out between his teeth, brows furrowed in anger. He looks so much like the petulant, arrogant boy Jones has always thought of him as. The flaring nostrils and the muscle jumping in his jaw– he is angrier than Jones' would have thought him to be, if not angry enough to make the leap into violence. He would not last for long, and they both know it.

"A lifetime of servitude, if I remember." The tentacles that make up the thick of his beard are tense and his eyes are narrowed into slits. "Ye have given your life."

"Then what was all of this for? So you can throw me off your ship, like Jack did?"

"I am giving ye yer freedom, ye unthankful whelp! Do ye not realize that every man on this ship would do anythin' to be in yer position?"

"You think I care about freedom?"

The words have something so violent within him take control of him that he grabs the boy's throat between the claw of his hand, digging brutally into the soft skin there and crushing the breath out of his lungs. The whelp's feet are barely touching the floor.

He would do anything for even the slightest grasp of freedom. He longs for it with every fiber, every shred of his wretched being and would do anything to take back what he gave away so freely when he was still _lovesick_ – and this boy, this damned, immature, ignorant boy, he would give it away as if it meant nothing to him.

With every breath he feels the absence of his freedom like a disease spreading from his heartless chest to his soulless insides and beyond, to the dark and damp recess of his chest where feelings and emotions used to reach, but do no longer. He has not felt what it is like to be free in so long– has not felt anything...

The impulse to touch suddenly rips through him, tearing at his self imposed self control. Blood is spilling down that neck– so red that he loosen his grip. Still, he feels a sense of conciliation at the sight of the red splotches there that will latest come morn darken into purple bruises and the blood that stains the collar of his shirt.

He will not need bandages.

A pained whimper that leaves Luke's lips, and Jones' fingers slide into the soft hair at the back of his head, nails scratching at the boy's scalp. His voice never changes tone or cadence as he murmurs, "Nothing is ever simple with you, is it, Mr Flynn?"

The hand in his hair curls into a fist and Jones tugs the boy's head back roughly. He can see the bob of Luke's throat as he swallows, the dots of perspiration on his skin, and the image nearly makes him change his mind to keep him by his side, to make him his and break him apart in the only way he knows how. There is no rationality to it, all he really wants is to keep this human part of himself as close as he can, no matter how much it bruises him.

He leans in and shuts his eyes to breathe in the boy's scent for the last time, soaking in the warmth clinging to his skin, and then lets go of him. The moment of vulnerability passes and he is left grasping for some semblance of his control.

"Go." he orders him in a voice that is not as cold and not as hard as he would have liked. "If yer not gone by sunlight, I will take ye back to the locker myself. Leave," _Live,_ he thinks, "and do not come back again."

He does not know why the sight of tears pooling in those eyes makes him feel the way it does _,_ when he should not be feeling anything at all with his heart still tucked out of sight in the folds of his coat, but the boy turns abruptly, rubbing at his face and exhaling a breath that makes his whole body tremble. The anger has fled his features and all Jones can see on his face is quiet acceptance. He nods, walking for the door– and then pauses.

"How long?" he utters in a voice that trembles just as much as his body does, his chin nearly touching his chest and eyes squeezed shut.

"I don't know what yer referring to."

"How long– _how long till you can come on land?"_

Jones goes very still. What little fragment of control he thought he had slips from his fingers when he looks at him and sees the sincerity on that face. His expression conveys honesty, and Jones has to avert his eyes to keep his face blank.

"Five years. Give or take." he answers honestly. "I don't imagine ye to be there after that."

At his last words Luke looks at him, eyes narrowed, though if it is out of anger Jones cannot tell. He keeps his eyes on Jones' face, as if he is gauging the meaning behind his words. His mouth turns into a frown.

"I won't abandon you."

And with those parting words he walks out, leaving him to his thoughts.


	2. Living

As a child, he had hated his life in this miserable town. He had hated his father and he had hated the clothes he wore, and he'd hated how messy his hair looked and the house that smelled of blood and spilled alcohol. It was then he had taught himself not to cry, hearing his mother's late-night mournings over his father. It was then he had first heard the stories of Captain Jack Sparrow.

How old had he been...?

He had been seven, and he would beat up the other children that liked to say to him _"where is your father gone?"_ and _"you'll never be a pirate"_. His mother would scold him and utter her disappointment while she bandaged Luke's hands, and she would tell him in a reaffirming voice that his father had been a sailor, he had been born at sea, and it was in his blood to one day be on a ship. Hearing her say it, Will had thought it was true.

Because that is how the truth works when you are a child.

* * *

Through the white mist, Luke can not see the ship dive beneath the water. Jones had not seen him off. Instead, Luke had left witout another word.

He is on the shores of his childhood, the memories of _back then_ laying at his bare feet. His mouth quirks downward at the image of a younger version of himself running along these very waters in his mind, all messy blonde hair and teeth bared lips, disheveled, and wearing the ill fitting clothes he had worn as a child.

The memory slips like sand through his fingers.

He starts to walk, though where he is going he doesn't know. He has nowhere _to_ go, really, and the thought of being abandoned on an island he doesn't know how to navigate weighs heavy on his shoulders.

Derelict houses become distinct as he comes closer inland and disappear in the mist of white as he passes them. They all look the same to him– worn, with dirty windows and no lights inside, though the streets are surprisingly full. There are sailors swaying drunkenly on their feet and ugly prostitutes that are unabashedly enjoying the attention of the grubby hands reaching for them. Luke averts his eyes and keeps walking.

In his mind, he thinks the world in front of him seems uglier than it did on the _Dutchman._

The walk to his childhood home doesn't take very long. Luke feels anxiety tingling in his arms and neck. The house is little more than a shack, and his eyes take in the structure that groans under the weight of its roof. He half thinks it will cave in on him if he goes inside. Knuckles turning white, he is aware of the tremor in his hand as he steps into the house while the floorboards creak under his feet. The scent of rotting wood and salt are heavy in the air.

He has walked this floor before, though his feet had been smaller then, but somehow it doesn't feel familiar.

It isn't the home he remembers from his childhood. _Home_ had been a house filled with laughter, a room covered in splinters, the memory of his mother cutting his hair when it got too long, of charts scattered on his bed, and of his soaked clothes lying on the floor. This isn't that, only an empty place with dust on the surfaces and glass panes. There is a sick roiling underneath his skin as he steps into his bedroom. Curtains billow out across the scuffed floor through an open window.

The thought of spending five years alone in this house haunts him. What he wouldn't give to see Jack.

He sits down on the edge of the dingy mattress, staring at his bandaged hands and the dried blood stains on them. Jones had bandaged them. He had rescued Luke from the locker and let him sleep on his bed, only to let him go like he meant nothing to him. And perhaps he hadn't. Perhaps Luke had fooled himself into thinking that their hard, exhausted rounds of fucking had meant something. Perhaps the man had noticed that their actions held no longer within them notes of hatred, but rather grudging affection. Perhaps that is why he had let him go.

What could he have said to convince him to let Luke stay? That he is just a eighteen year old boy who doesn't know how to be alone? How the bandages on his hands need changing and he can't quite bring himself to do it?

Luke can feel the hysterical laughter building up in his chest. He would do anything that the man wanted him to, if he would take him back. He would take it without complaint. He would lie back and let Jones take the whip to his back again, if that's what it took, and he would beg for more because he knows that the man would give it to him.

But...

There is always a "but", isn't there? Because Jones is gone, and Luke will not see him again for five years, _if_ he ever sees him again...

* * *

That night, he wakes up breathing harshly into his pillow and with the sheets tangled around his feet. His harsh breaths go unheard in the darkness of his room. In his dreams he is drowning. He dreams of water and the taste of salt in the back of his throat, of a dark blue vision and the ocean weighing down on his chest.

 _Breathe... It was only a dream. It was just a dream._

Hands fisted into the fabric of his shirt, he is aware of the heartbeat beneath the pads of his fingers. His eyes widen, and he is a little startled to realize that his heart is beating save and sound inside his chest. His hands slide under his shirt and clumsy fingers trace over the scar tissue there, all the way from collarbone to the center of his chest. He hadn't noticed it– how could he not have noticed? _How...?_

He can feel his heart beating and hear the blood rushing in his ears. He is awake, and wth the realization, the emptiness inside his chest doesn't feel so empty anymore. There is a dull ache clawing at the cavity of his heart, and it is Luke then who doesn't understand why Jones, with his cruel words and callous hands, did what he did for him.

A part of him thinks he doesn't want to understand.

* * *

A loose floorboard under his bed hides a bottle of whiskey, and, drinking it Luke can taste an undercurrent of nostalgia in his blood. It becomes a safety net in the madness that is his life.

He wanders along the beach one night, having found comfort at the bottom of a bottle and not able to find his way out, his eyes are looking for the sails of the _Dutchman_ in the distance. It is only wishful thinking, and in Luke's world there is no space for wishful, and the emptied bottle slips from his fingers...

* * *

He visits his mother's grave.

The earth around her grave is undisturbed. There is no one else to bring flowers but him. Nine years after her death, Luke finds he can't remember her face.

Her body, only bones and dust now, lies beneath dirt and stone. She doesn't know that her son is standing so close. Doesn't know that he is living unloved, unseen and alone. That his heart is still beating, beating again, steadily within his chest.

He wonders what she would say to him, if she could see him. If she would recognize him still and talk about his hair and how much it has grown.

The tears come suddenly and unbidden. His stomach clenches and the pain in his heart urges him to sob. He buries his head in his hands and starts to cry.

* * *

He befriends a boy his age with a mop of the reddest hair Luke has ever seen, that goes by the name of Paul. At the end of each day he and Luke share adventures over a bottle of rum, and for the first time in fifteen days the corners of Luke's mouth quirk up into a smile. They take off their clothes to go swimming in the ocean and lie naked on their stomachs in the sand, taking drags from a cigar shared between them.

One night they are drinking rum and watching the sky swallow the sun, and Paul's arm is brushing against Luke's side. The boy's skin is damp and warm, and the small contact feels good enough that Luke doesn't push him off when Paul leans over him to take the bottle out of his hand. He likes Paul, because he calls him "Luke". Not "Mr Flynn" as Jones had in his guttural tone, spitting out his name as though it is poison in his mouth, and not "Luke" in the way that Jack did in his lilting voice.

He calls him "Luke" as if they are friends.

It is either the alcohol or the close proximity of the redhead that makes Luke's head spin. He tells Paul about Jack Sparrow and about how the man has a way of digging his own grave and escaping death again and again, and Paul laughs with him at the ridiculousness of it. Talking about Jack, Luke feels the weight that has been crushing his chest lighten, and, for a minute he wishes Jack were sitting beside him and laughing with him.

"You're bent, aren't you?" Paul asks him while taking a slow sip of rum.

"What?"

"You know..."

Large brown eyes are laughing at him.

As a boy Luke didn't know what "bent" meant. It had been one of the insults he had heard growing up. Shirt-lifter. Poof. Bender. They had meant "strange". "Sick". A man who would do it to another man. Luke had known what "bent" meant when the other boys had sneered at him because he had kissed another boy, and Luke had never forgotten. "Bent" had meant perverted, different.

"Oh."

Luke can't stop the color from creeping over his face. He only nods while his eyes travel over the other boy's freckled shoulders. Paul's mouth splits into a grin and he says "Good to know." before he folds Luke's finger around the neck of the bottle and presses a quick kiss to the corner of his mouth.

* * *

He is walking home one night when he sees Paul on the ground and getting beaten by another man. Well over six feet tall, he stands over the smaller boy, hitting him again and again while calling him "a fucking tease". Without thinking Luke runs to help, only to catch a fist in the face.

"I saw him first, so piss off!" the man yells, clearly drunk, and Luke scowls at him.

As he gets up from the ground and presses his tongue to his bleeding lip, all he thinks is how neat the knife in his belt would look in the man's side, and how scared Paul looks next to him...

* * *

It is nearing sundown and the light spilling into his room is red.

Footsteps, loud in the silence of his house pull him from the depths of sleep into full consciousness. He presses the heel of his hand against a bleary eye and listens to the pacing feet in the other room. He knows exactly where that person is, can hear the path he takes from the threshold to the window to the chair and to the liquor cabinet, and then back to the chair. Luke knows who it is and is out of bed like a landslide.

"Jack."

The man is sitting in his chair and pouring whiskey into a glass. He doesn't look up when Luke takes a seat across from him, though he is sure he can see a smile tugging at Jacks lips. He reaches for his own glass and cleans it with the sleeve of his shirt before pouring himself a splash of the golden liquid. The beads in Jack's hair click together softly.

Taking a small sip, the taste on his tongue has become familiar. Luke feels it trickle down his throat and pool warmly in his chest and in his stomach. He still coughs against the burning in his throat and watches the liquid swirl in his glass.

"You look awful, luv," Jack says finally, and the words have Luke's features twisting into a grimace. "You really should think about cutting that hair a little, eh? A trim right here couldn' hurt."

* * *

 **Jack**

Jack discovers, by and by, that the boy is an emotional drunk. The whiskey seems to rouse Luke's melancholy and his temper, and it makes his smile wide. It loosens his tongue, and he is spilling his guts to Jack without him having to ask. His drinking habits have changed, if the way he keeps refilling his glass full to the rim is anything to by.

He swallows down the words forming in his mouth and listens to the boy telling him of how his dreams are full of water and cold hands around his neck, and how most nights that alone is enough to keep him awake. Jack looks at the boy as though he wants to comfort him as he would a small child and then thinks better of it. He thinks that Luke wants him to, but rather, his fingers curl around his glass.

"S'alright if you want to cry, mate. No shame in it." He keeps his voice soft, the words paddened as to not upset the boy sitting infront of him.

Luke's jaw twitches helplessly, but he only averts his eyes and bites down on his lip.

There are holes in the wall hides behind. The months apart have estranged them, but to Jack, the root cause of them is crude and obvious, as is the sadness and confusion pouring out of them. Luke is wary of him to the point of clumsiness. He flinches at the sound of the chair scraping on the floor and tenses at the slightest movement of his. Jack can see how fragile he is, and how desperately Luke is trying to keep that from him. His movements are slightly unsteady when he pours another glass, liquid sloshing over his hands, and, before long Jack grabs the bottle out of his hand. The stink of alcohol is heavy on his breath.

"Ah, I think you have had quite enough of that."

He has never in his life looked out much for others, only for himself. Luke is the only exception.

* * *

 **Luke**

There he goes, talking to Luke like he knows and understands him. It makes him want to lash out and smash his fist into Jack's face.

It would be pointless to try and explain to Jack that he did what he had to. Because you do what you have to when you are responsible for a life that is not your own. That he did for Jones what he did for reasons other than that, Jack doesn't need to know.

It has to be the alcohol, when Luke opens his mouth and explains it anyway.

"I loved him, Jack." he says slowly, quietly. He doesn't say, _"And it wasn't enough."_ because he doesn't need to. Jack knows. He knows, because the both of them are not where they want to be, but rather they are on their way to drink themselves into an early grave.

"I should've listened to you. _Why didn't you make me listen to you?"_

He coughs at the bitter bile on the his tongue as a wave of nausea washes over him. The rum has done its work. He gags, and, at the sound Jack is at his side and rubbing circles into his back. A wet splash on sodden floorboards and the alcohol burning in his gut. A heavy, sick roiling underneath his skin. One hand is on his neck and leading him to the washbasin by the window.

"Easy, luv, easy." Jack murmurs above him while he washes Luke's face. Water slides down his neck and chest, and Luke can only nod because his throat is not working anymore. "When did you last get a full nights sleep, eh?"

It isn't quite an "I'm sorry for what happened", but it is somewhere in the space between "I know I messed up" and "I'm here for you if you need me", and that is enough.

* * *

When Luke opens his eyes, looking at the blurry outline of Jack Sparrow sleeping beside him, he knows he is dreaming. What is Jack still doing here, snoring softly with his mouth open and drool running down his chin? Luke has never known him to stay very long in one place. It isn't that he is not relieved to see him, and it is not that he thinks that Jack would ever leave him, but he realizes that he had expected him to do so anyway.

That's just the kind of man Jack is.

He often forgets that there are good sides to Jack, too.

As he lies back onto the uncomfortable matress of his bed, he thinks he much prefers this to the dreams of drowning in the ocean.

Luke wakes up with the poor excuse of a blanket sticking to his thighs. He is still wearing his pants, though his shirt is gone. His eyes widen when realizes his erection is making a little, damp spot against the cotton of the sheets.

How he can go from having a nightmare to having an explicit dream, he doesn't know. All he knows is that his cock is hard and that the images of his dream are still vividly painted in his mind– another body pressed against his, the large hand on him and his cock and the familiar smell of tabbacco and salt in his nose and the hard floor against his back as–

Dark brows furrow in anger. Knuckles are white against dampened sheets.

"Sleep well, did ya, mate?" Jack asks from the other side of the room and, to Luke's horror, he is winking at him with that smirk of his that says "I know what you've been dreaming".

He blows a puff of air up to his bangs to get them out of his eyes, looking at his erection tenting the sheets. Embarrassment colors his cheeks a dark red.

"I'm sure I do not want to understand what you've seen in the old squidface." When Luke opens his mouth to speak, his vision is obscured by something dark and heavy. "Say, how did you and 'im do it? I really want to know."

An annoyed groan and Luke pulls the fabric down. Having a pile of clothes thrown in his face is not the way he likes to wake up. Neither is with a hard on. He shoves his arm through the sleeve of his shirt and fingers the button on his collar, if only not to have to meet Jack's questioning eyes.

"I would've thought that the _great Captain Jack Sparrow_ , breaker of women's hearts all over the Carribbean, would know how to _fuck."_ he says.

"I do know how to _fuck,_ as you so eloquently put it."

"Then there's nothing to talk about, is there?"

An amuesed snort is his answer.

* * *

"He fancies you, that one." Jack says to him one night where he and Luke are walking along the Pearl's side, gesturing toward the lights and noise of the port and Paul calling his name from across the bay.

Luke shrugs, as if he hasn't already noticed this, because, really, what else is he supposed to do? He knows how foolish he is. It doesn't help that Jack is wiggling his eyebrows at him and Paul is smiling at him with such adoration that Luke has to avert his eyes.

It has been so long since he has had another's hands on him and he is scared, because his body feels like it is not his own. Another man had left his marks on Luke's skin, and although they have long faded, it feels as if they have slipped underneath his skin and into the marrow of his very bones. He knows where the dark red circles had curled around his arm and around his waist and his neck and, most of all, he knows he can't shake Davy Jones.

When Paul kisses him that night and slides a hand under Luke's shirt, pushing a tongue into his mouth, all he can think about is how the body on top of his is too warm and the skin against his palm is too smooth and he doesn't feel anything at all.

Luke realizes, with a sad kind of regret, that this is his first kiss, he has never kissed Davy Jones, and perhaps he never will.

* * *

Jack leaves with the promise to return in thirty-four days.

A storm is coming, he'd said, and Luke can feel it whistle in his chest as he stares out to sea. It comes suddenly, and with a force he hasn't seen in a while, so forcefull and destructive that it makes the moldering boards of his house groan and creak. The water is as dark as the night itself. The crashing of waves fills his ears.

It is then he sees her, coming out of the sea in a gown of... blue? Black? Luke can't be sure, for the color seems to change with each movement. The low cut of it bares her chest to him, but his eyes are drawn to the sway of her hips as she moves towards him, fluid as water. From her hair, seaweat is sticking wetly to her shoulders. She has a way of walking, like she has been alive for a long time and has seen all that is in the world.

Luke thinks he knows who she is. He thinks she knows who he is, too.

"You're 'im," she says with a reveal of inky black teeth, and though her mouth is smiling, it doesn't reach her eyes. "de boy who saved Davy Jones."

This close, he can smell the salt clinging to her skin. It is the sea standing before him in all her untamed beauty, with eyes that are looking deep into his soul. Luke finds that he is terrified. She is a bit taller than him, and when she reaches out a hand to touch his face he nearly flinches. Her smile widens.

"Shy, you are, but you don'ave to fear me. I am only 'ere to thank you for wha' you did, Luke Flynn."

"Thank me?"

His name sounds familiar on her tongue, as if he has heard her say it before.

"Aye. You saved my love." she says, and the words stir something violent inside of him. He knows that she knows as well as him that he is angry by how her mouth seems to widen more.

"I didn't know you cared." he says through clenched teeth. His body trembles with suppressed rage.

"I would'ave come to him, if I had thought him to still be tha man I fell in love wit'."

"That doesn't make it alright!" he argues back, but she is no longer listening to him.

One of her hands is moving his shirt out of the way while the other is running its fingers over the scar on his chest. Seeing it, her eyes soften slightly. There is no shame in them, only pity. Pity for Luke, who in her eyes is only a boy to which anger comes with painful ease and who falls in love too easily. Who had been so desperate for recognition in this world that he didn't see Jones for who he was. Luke hadn't seen him, because he hadn't wanted to.

Her smile is kind, if a little sad, and she leans down to press her lips to his forhead in a gesture that is meant to comfort him as much as pacify his anger. He is too surprised to speak, and it must have shown in his face, for she laughs.

"You will wait for 'im, to come ashore."

It isn't a real question. She can read the truth in his face.

She steps away from him and toward the sea. Her feet are touching the water when Luke calls out to her, because he has questions he needs answers to. "Wait! How– I don't understand it. How am I still alive? My heart–"

She doesn't look at him, her gown fluttering in the wind and hugging her form tight as she says, "You were not meant to die on that ship, Luke Flynn."

She is talking in riddles and Luke wants to yell at her.

"But I did die." he says, his hand subconsciously moving to the place on his chest where the skin is scarred red. It is still surreal to feel it beating there, his heart whole and sound.

There is no answer.

Callypso is gone.

* * *

Weeks turn into months turn into years. The years crawl by, little by little, and suddenly his life is painfully, endlessly normal. As normal as a boy living alone in the middle of nowhere who drinks too much can be.

Jack comes and goes, and no matter how often Luke promises him he will cut his hair, he never does. The long, shaggy blonde strands are reaching past his shoulders and never quite get untangled. Luke is past the point of caring. And really, why should he care about it?

Then there are the scars on his hands and chest and back, and Luke can't stop looking at them. Scars are a symbol of strength, Jack says, proudly showing him the scar on his arm and the one on his calf. And, were he still a child, Luke would have believed him. But he has come to believe that scars are only a symbol of survival, that the wearer of said scars had suffered, though perhaps that says more about him than it does about Jack.

He should be happy. Happier at least, but somehow he doesn't feel it.

He had not expected any letters or surprise visits (as if, he thinks bitterly), but the reality is still hard to digest.

His life is painfully, endlessly normal. Except that it isn't, because how can it be, if he doesn't feel it.

* * *

A young man nearly drowns out at sea, and he is rescued out of the water by a boat of fishermen. He comes to with the saddest of eyes and coughing up water, and the name "Davy Jones" on his lips. An accident, he says and doesn't say more. The men look at each other and at him, disbelief in their eyes, but he doesn't open his mouth to explain.

Cerulean eyes watch from a distance as he wanders along the shore line, but he doesn't know about that. He doesn't know that, would he really have drowned, those eyes would have looked for him in the deep and dark of the sea, and he doesn't know that the man watching him is not a man at all, and that at night the man, he dreams of skin soft and warm as sunlight.

He goes home with his heart heavy in his chest and clothes dripping wet, and curls up on the bed with his knees bent close to his chest. He sleeps then, dreaming of water...


End file.
